The Tweedy's
by Swampfyr
Summary: When a young Mrs. Tweedy meets her future husband, something is awakened inside her.


Melisha sighed. It had been another long, lonely day at school. As she closed her locker, she noticed Willard, a nice boy from her last class, approach her. He took off his hat and fiddled with it nervously.

"Melisha...", he stammered.

"What do you want?", she snapped at him. Damn. She never means to come across as mean as she does, but she can't help it.

"Well... I was just wondering, if you're not busy, there's a dance tonight."

"And?", she said, again too harshly.

"W-would you like to go with me?" As he said it, he finally met her eyes, and she saw the pure, raw terror deep within. He was going to have a heart attack. She attempted a smile.

"I'd love to go with you to the dance, Willard", she muttered, blushing bright red. She could see relief wash over him, and he almost melted as he told her when he'd pick her up.

* * *

It was the night after the dance. Willard took her out, and while they spent most of the night awkwardly sitting on the sidelines, it was still one of the best nights of her life. Much better than the normal nights, sitting at home doing her schoolwork and heading to bed early. Or worse, feeling the lash of her drunken father for some imagined slight. She let her dress fall to the floor, and looked over herself in her full-length mirror. She was slim; gawky, even. Still, it was hard not to feel pretty after how Willard treated her. He was such a gentleman, opening doors for her, getting food and drinks. And he was so cute when his nerves got to him. She didn't know why, but she couldn't help but like seeing him freeze in fear when she said he got her the wrong drink.

She lay down, her hand involuntarily brushing a nipple. It was as if an electric current ran through her body. She did it again, thinking of Willard, and got the same result. She knew she wasn't supposed to do this, that her pastor said it was wrong, but her hand started to stray south. Her breaths got faster as her chest heaved, glistening with sweat. She gasped, and bit down on her knuckle to keep from crying out. She could just imagine Willard on top of her, sticking his... manly parts into her, stretching her out the same way her fingers were right now.

Her jaw tightened, and she started to taste blood as her fingers worked faster and faster. The pain oddly only made her more aroused, and dug deeper, gasping around her hand, wanting to scream out in pain and euphoria. Her thoughts turned dark, and she imagined herself on top of Willard, digging her nails into his pale skin, drawing blood. Her vagina grasping tightly to his thick shaft, too tightly, as he squirms under her; wanting to escape but unable to.

With this image, she explodes, making deep, guttural, animalistic noises around her impromptu gag. She shudders and shakes for some time, gripped tightly in the clutches of her orgasm. As it subsides, she starts to feel bad about her fantasies, about the fact that she sinned and wanted to sin more. However, it was just too good. She could never resist going back to that.

* * *

A year has passed. It's the night of her wedding. The vows were made, the cake was cut, and she and Willard are nervously making their way to their bridal suite (his small farm house inherited from his father). Conversation never came easily to the two, but the car is especially quiet now. They both know what's coming. Ever since that night a year ago, Melisha has waited for this moment. Night after night, dreaming about it. All the things she'd do to Willard. All the things she wouldn't do, to tease him. She looked over at Willard, at her daft, nervous man, and smiled wickedly. He saw her looking and cleared his throat.

"Mel...", he started.

"Hush", she commanded, "it's 'Mrs. Tweedy' now."

"Aye, Mrs. Tweedy then," he smiled nervously, as they got out of the car and walked up to the house. He opened the door for her, chivalrous as ever. As she walked in, she looked around in disdain. The house wasn't dirty, but it was old, and not well taken care of since Willard's mother passed.

"You'll have to tidy this up, starting tomorrow, Mr. Tweedy."

"Aye, love. Shall we get to the bedroom then?", he asked eagerly.

"Go get ready, I'll be up in a moment," she told him. He nearly sprinted up the stairs. She opened the suitcase he brought in, not containing all her earthly possessions, just enough to get her by until she gets around to gathering up her things from home. At the very bottom was her most treasured item. She got it on the one occasion she went into Yorkshire, on a school trip. She had snuck off to the bad part of town, and found a store specializing in... unsavory goods. It was a thin length of wood wrapped in leather, with a loop of leather at the end. The shopkeeper, an unsavory man to match the goods he sold, told her exactly what it was for in excruciating detail. She could have bought one at some other store, lied and said she rode horses, but the depravity of making a purchase at such a house of sin made her blood boil in all the right ways.

She strode up the stairs, a fire in her eyes and a yearning in her belly. This was going to be their first time together and she was going to enjoy it. She opened the cracked bedroom door to see her devoted sitting uncomfortably on the bed, stripped to his skivvies, hands folded in front of him waiting patiently for her. He looked up as she walked in.

"Mrs. Twe...", he started before her finger came up to press firmly against his lip.

"No talking now, Mr. Tweedy, is that understood?" He nodded. "Good."

With that, she took her finger of his mouth and kissed him deeply. He tried his best to return it with passion, but his confusion made him clumsy. She backed away and pulled the riding crop from behind her back.

"What's that f..." She smacked him in the face, harder than she meant to.

"What did I say about talking?" She demanded. He closed his open mouth and nodded again as she slowly caressed his face with the crop. She saw a tent forming in his boxers and smirked. Slowly, gently, lovingly, she traced his heavy, farmer's build, until the crop rested on his bulge. She swatted his hands, and he dutifully stripped them off, revealing his erect, glistening member.

She backed away and pulled her dress off, revealing her pale skin to another's eyes for the first time since she was a child. He looked dumbstruck. While she never truly felt pretty, she could tell from the look in his eyes that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She lay back on the bed and invited him towards her. He stumbled up the bed until he reached her thighs, which he clumsily caressed, before inserting himself.

She gasped, and shuddered in ecstasy. It wasn't that he was especially big, or especially skillful. He was simply deeper inside her than anything else had ever been. Soon, he worked himself up to a decent pace, but she wanted more. Hungered for more, craved it. She whipped him a little, and he picked up the pace, starting to gasp already. She felt a stirring in herself, and took great pleasure whipping him harder and harder as he pushed into her faster and faster until she couldn't hold on anymore and tossed the crop away. She pulled him close and dug her fingernails in and bit him, and he gave a short yelp before thrusting deeper than he had before and staying there, pulsing deep inside her. She could feel a warmth spreading, and was pushed over the edge at the realization of what just happened. He gasped as she clamped down on him involuntarily. After a few moments, he fell off her and they both lay there heaving, steam rising from their bodies on the cold, English night.

* * *

Years passed, and their sex life declined. The longer their marriage went on, the more depraved she got, and the less Mr. Tweedy wanted to participate. She took pleasure in being especially cruel to the chicken's they kept, running the farm more like a penitentiary than anything else. She knew that Mr. Tweedy liked it this way too, enjoying the little power he was afforded over these miserable creatures when he had no power with her. They got two guard dogs, and trained them to be vicious, mean creatures. Animals trained to find and hurt. Perhaps it was overkill, or perhaps she secretly wanted a trespasser to be caught by them, only to be a pile of meat by morning. Regardless, life was uneventful.

Recently, however, their sex life had been rekindled. Mrs. Tweedy had the brilliant idea to no longer simply harvest the eggs from their chickens, but to harvest the chickens themselves. She bought a massive industrial pie machine and felt a stirring in her belly once more. Yes, the Tweedy's had always been egg farmers, but the future is now. In the giddiness of making their decision to fatten up the hens for meat, she couldn't help herself. She and Mr. Tweedy spent the night making passionate, painful love, although Mr. Tweedy seemed distracted by something. She went to bed that night dreaming of pie.

* * *

Disaster.

The chickens, somehow, escaped. They built some sort of flying machine (who knew they were intelligent?) and literally flew the coop. Mr. Tweedy, the incompetent bastard, got captured by them, and to top it all off the machine was sabotaged.

With her inside it.

Now, she's sitting in a pool of gravy, dirtier than she'd ever been, arms bound by the metal container she fell in. She's been badly burned, but the pain doesn't bother her. If anything, it gives her a fluttering feeling incongruous with her situation. She's on the verge of tears, but she learned long ago not to cry. Stiff upper lip. Don't let them see you cry.

The dogs are having the best time of their lives. This is paradise, gravy all around and Mrs. Tweedy isn't scolding them. They come sniffing over to them and find that she, too, is covered with gravy. She wants to yell at them, tell them to get away, but she's too weak and too emotionally drained. She kneels there, bound, as they begin to lick her clean.

Eventually, inevitably, they get down to her thighs. And her cleft. They tear at the fabric of her underwear, smelling something different behind the flimsy barrier. She twitches as their long, hot tongues probe her, lapping up gravy and... gravy. Some part of their brain kicks in, and the bigger one begins to mount her. She starts to weakly protest, but is silenced by the jabbing of a cock much larger and clumsier than the one she's used to. It starts to thrust in and out of her. Fast, uncaring of her pleasure. She cries out in pain and humiliation as the cock starts to swell and the mutt stops thrusting and unleashes his load inside her. After a minute, he pops out, eliciting another cry from her, and the second, smaller dog takes his place. As he starts to use her, a familiar feeling starts to build inside her, and she can't help from moaning as she's made into a bitch for her former pets. When the dog's member starts to swell, she can't help herself any more and spasms as she has the most intense orgasm of her life. As the dog trots away to eat more gravy and she slips into unconsciousness, Mrs. Tweedy sighed.

~The End~


End file.
